Read Online Shamrock Alley by Ronald Damien Malfi - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ronald Damien Malfi
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Thrillers, Crime, Horror, New York (N.Y.), Government investigators, organized crime, Horror Fiction, Undercover operations
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he tried to work them out of his mouth with his tongue.
“I want his tongue!”
A sharp, sudden, stinging pain infiltrated his mouth. Liquid flowed freely down his throat, nearly choking him. He felt pain and pressure and the abrupt
chunk!
as the serrated blade of the knife pierced through his tongue and clanged against his teeth. In his agony, he worked his tongue around his mouth to assess the damage … only to find that his tongue was no longer there.
“Teach you,” said a voice. “School’s open.”
Then the hammer came down on his injured knee, and an electric charge of pain exploded in his leg. He screamed into the night, his throat full of blood, and the sound of his own agony was suddenly all he could hear, all that existed. Again, behind his clenched eyelids, an image was summoned. Only this was not the image of his friend’s death in the alley just moments ago. This image was of a place upstate where his family used to vacation during his childhood, where he and his father would pull large perch from a lake hidden behind a stand of giant firs, and where his mother would sing to them all at night before—
The hammer came down on Harold Corcoran forty-three times that evening.
Yet Harold only lived to feel the eleventh blow.
Special Agent Bill Kersh, who had never married and who had never desired the companionship of a roommate, wholly appreciated the silence of an empty room. When working late, he sooner preferred the company of Charlie Byrd, Benny Goodman, Dave Brubeck, and Billie Holiday to the raucous cacophony of the younger agents. On stormy autumn nights, the soft patter of rain against the office windows soothed him. The look of the darkened cubicles after hours was welcomed, and he would sometimes pause and look up from his work to simply study the emptiness of the office, the way a priest may search for peace in an empty cathedral. On occasion, when he found time to entertain such thoughts, he absently wondered how some of the younger agents viewed him. Not that it really mattered. It was a different generation, after all.
The office was never really asleep. Aside from Kersh, there were always others working the late shift, typing reports, slipping in and out of the office like phantoms through walls. Though he preferred to work alone, their presence did not disturb him; rather, their approaching footfalls in the hallway and their under-the-breath muttering as they stepped from the restroom provided him with some semblance of time and place. There had been times when he’d worked in absolute silence only to find himself staring—quite perplexedly—through the bank of office windows at a rising sun. Watches and clocks served no purpose: easily forgotten, they only ticked away in silence. A living, moving presence, on the other hand, kept him grounded.
He eased back in his desk chair and rubbed his eyes. Before him, the city was black and dotted with colored lights. Glancing at his watch, he saw he only had about ten more minutes before he’d have to head back into the city to meet with Sloopy Black, one of his regular informants, at the Paradise Lounge. Since Biddleman’s insistence that Kersh and John sever ties with Deveneau’s coterie, Kersh had again immersed himself in his informants and his contacts. Yet despite this revival, Kersh couldn’t help but feel that he was looking in the wrong direction. That tonight’s meeting with the reptilian-like Sloopy Black would yield no fresh avenues, Kersh had no doubt. He would go merely to get out of the office for a while, to actually walk the streets again like a human being, to smell the air.
Three days since the fiasco at the club, and Francis Deveneau’s phony bills were still popping up throughout the city. In the past week alone, the Secret Service had received roughly $100,000 worth of phony notes that were passed in New York, and just about the same amount cropped up in Jersey, Boston, and even Miami. Kersh had a number of the
“I want his tongue!”
A sharp, sudden, stinging pain infiltrated his mouth. Liquid flowed freely down his throat, nearly choking him. He felt pain and pressure and the abrupt
chunk!
as the serrated blade of the knife pierced through his tongue and clanged against his teeth. In his agony, he worked his tongue around his mouth to assess the damage … only to find that his tongue was no longer there.
“Teach you,” said a voice. “School’s open.”
Then the hammer came down on his injured knee, and an electric charge of pain exploded in his leg. He screamed into the night, his throat full of blood, and the sound of his own agony was suddenly all he could hear, all that existed. Again, behind his clenched eyelids, an image was summoned. Only this was not the image of his friend’s death in the alley just moments ago. This image was of a place upstate where his family used to vacation during his childhood, where he and his father would pull large perch from a lake hidden behind a stand of giant firs, and where his mother would sing to them all at night before—
The hammer came down on Harold Corcoran forty-three times that evening.
Yet Harold only lived to feel the eleventh blow.
Special Agent Bill Kersh, who had never married and who had never desired the companionship of a roommate, wholly appreciated the silence of an empty room. When working late, he sooner preferred the company of Charlie Byrd, Benny Goodman, Dave Brubeck, and Billie Holiday to the raucous cacophony of the younger agents. On stormy autumn nights, the soft patter of rain against the office windows soothed him. The look of the darkened cubicles after hours was welcomed, and he would sometimes pause and look up from his work to simply study the emptiness of the office, the way a priest may search for peace in an empty cathedral. On occasion, when he found time to entertain such thoughts, he absently wondered how some of the younger agents viewed him. Not that it really mattered. It was a different generation, after all.
The office was never really asleep. Aside from Kersh, there were always others working the late shift, typing reports, slipping in and out of the office like phantoms through walls. Though he preferred to work alone, their presence did not disturb him; rather, their approaching footfalls in the hallway and their under-the-breath muttering as they stepped from the restroom provided him with some semblance of time and place. There had been times when he’d worked in absolute silence only to find himself staring—quite perplexedly—through the bank of office windows at a rising sun. Watches and clocks served no purpose: easily forgotten, they only ticked away in silence. A living, moving presence, on the other hand, kept him grounded.
He eased back in his desk chair and rubbed his eyes. Before him, the city was black and dotted with colored lights. Glancing at his watch, he saw he only had about ten more minutes before he’d have to head back into the city to meet with Sloopy Black, one of his regular informants, at the Paradise Lounge. Since Biddleman’s insistence that Kersh and John sever ties with Deveneau’s coterie, Kersh had again immersed himself in his informants and his contacts. Yet despite this revival, Kersh couldn’t help but feel that he was looking in the wrong direction. That tonight’s meeting with the reptilian-like Sloopy Black would yield no fresh avenues, Kersh had no doubt. He would go merely to get out of the office for a while, to actually walk the streets again like a human being, to smell the air.
Three days since the fiasco at the club, and Francis Deveneau’s phony bills were still popping up throughout the city. In the past week alone, the Secret Service had received roughly $100,000 worth of phony notes that were passed in New York, and just about the same amount cropped up in Jersey, Boston, and even Miami. Kersh had a number of the
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